


Leman Mine

by prairiecrow



Series: Avengers of the Midland Kingdoms [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Fingerfucking, Flirting, Food Kink, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Magic, Master/Servant, Promiscuity, Ritual, Sacrifice, Sharing Food and Wine, Snarky Jarvis, Submission, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Topping from the Bottom, betrothal, footrubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Antony Stark has slept with a lot of women — a LOT of women — but at the end of the day, there's only one person he consistently comes home to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Takes place around five years before "Avengers of the Midland Kingdoms".
> 
> 2) "Leman" - Middle English, archaic, "lover", "sweetheart", especially "mistress".
> 
> 3) This universe's version of Jarvis, roughly: https://www.mev.de/imagedb/LAYOUT_WZ/AID/VOL_13/AID013BE03.jpg

Lord Antony Stark walked into his suite of rooms at the Darvain's Ghost Inn in the Iosian port city of Niosivar with the jaunty stride that came from a successful afternoon's wooing — swaggering, sensual and satisfied to the bone, with a cocky smile on his face and a song in his heart. The late spring day had been balmy and even nightfall hadn't brought a real chill, so he didn't have an overcoat to doff as he closed the door behind him, calling down the short darkened entrance hallway: "Jarvis?" 

The tall slender Fae-born had known he was coming, of course: their subliminal empathic link didn't permit the mind-to-mind contact of a Jeratai bond, but it provided a sense of proximity — and of the general shape of desire, if Tony consciously projected it, which he had. Consequently the sitting room was lit by the mellow atmospheric glow of three standing esoric lamps — none of the modern anbaric tech for a conspicuously and deliberately vintage hotel like this — and the main table was laid with a tempting selection of cured meats, hard cheeses and fresh bread. Jarvis had just opened the chilled bottle of '17 Chablin and was pouring a rounded glass of the red wine with his black-gloved hands. "Welcome back, Sir. Your bath is drawn and ready." 

"Excellent." He was already stripping as he walked toward the bathroom, tossing his coat and vest carelessly on the couch. They would be taken care of. "I'll eat and drink later. Attend me, after you've laid out my clothes for tomorrow." 

He didn't have to see the reverent bow of that smooth golden-haired head to know it had taken place. "Very good, Sir." He also didn't have to spell out what the command meant: that Jarvis would have other things to do this evening besides making arrangements for Tony's convenience in the morning. Tony's smile widened to a grin as he loosened his stylish silk tie and his fine linen shirt, letting everything fall in an expensive jumble on the marble tiles at his feet before sitting down on the closed toilet to tug off his boots with a grunt of relief, then rising again to skin off his trousers and underwear with the speed of one accustomed to getting out of his pants quickly on a fairly regular basis. 

The hot water felt wonderful to his muscles; even with Jarvis's bardic ministrations to ease any ache that might linger after battle, a certain tenderness sometimes remained — and his combat with the Ipwich Horror three days previous had been one of the hardest of his career to date,  physically as well as mentally. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, and smiled again when a couple of minutes later he felt a cool bare hand silently laid upon his shoulder.  

"You know what to do," he drawled lazily. 

"Yes, Sir," Jarvis murmured — Tony knew he had already slipped off his trim black frock coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves in anticipation his Lord's needs — and soaped up his pale slender hands before proceeding to bathe his master thoroughly both above and below the waterline, leaving no inch of available skin untended. Tony permitted himself to relax completely under the Fae-born's expert touch, his smile turning hot and sweet: for one so nobly born, Jarvis was marvellously adept at the art of providing attentive body service… but that was part of the point, wasn't it? That was what made these moments so valuable a gift rather than merely a duty rendered from inferior to superior; it was what made the act, and Jarvis himself, a rarer treasure than Tony's fortune could ever buy. It also made his pulse quicken in spite of this afternoon's lusty romp, his flesh inspired by the esoric engine in his chest with more than merely human energy and endurance. 

Every inch, including the ones that stirred and thickened — but Jarvis remained professional, ministering to Tony's cock and balls with the same stroke and pressure as his shoulder and his calves. His feet, though… he drew those out of the water one by one and paid extra attention to them, knowing how the heels Tony wore to add inches to his height put undue pressure on the bones and ligaments, and Tony hissed gratefully as those skillful fingers worked out the day's tensions. "Ah, _yes_ …" 

"Good, Sir?" 

"Exemplary. As always." He sank deeper into the water and flexed the toes of the foot currently on the folded towel in Jarvis's lap, grunting again when the Fae-born's thumbs ran up and down his instep, wondering if this was a taste what the Parta's blessed Afterlife felt like. Quite probably, he decided. 

"I'm so pleased," Jarvis responded silkily, and did something to the ball of Tony's foot that turned _probably_ into _definitely_. 

"I'll bet you are…" He had no idea where a noble-born scion of a Fae leader had learned such techniques of pleasuring, but whoever was responsible deserved a medal — no, _two_ medals, and a lifelong pension from the Stark treasury. "Oh yes, right there —" 

"Is that what she said?" 

"Hm? Oh, oh _yes_ — Who?" 

"Your paramour of the hour?" There was no recrimination in the question, only a hint of fond teasing wrapped in a dry inflection.  

This time Tony smirked. "As a matter of fact, yes. Numerous times." 

"Eloquently, one hopes. I know how much you enjoy a good conversation." 

That made Tony laugh outright. "She was a barmaid, if you must know — fresh and pretty as the morning, and not especially bright, but a good deal coyer than is generally the wont for women of her class in this city. She wasn't quite ready to lift her skirts for Antony Stark, Lord of Newarl, but the moment she realized that she was also in the presence of Iron Man, Protector of all Iosia —" 

"— she succumbed to the overwhelming power of your heroic glory?" 

He winced, half a protest and half a grimace of pleasure. "Now you're just being — ow, that's _wonderful_ — catty!"  

Jarvis gave his left foot one final overall rub, lowered it back into the hot water (and wasn't _that_ a taste of Heaven itself?), then rose and came around the other side of the tub to sit down again and pick up Tony's right foot, settling it in his lap. "Not at all. I'm simply pointing out a fact of life: that women are singularly attracted to strength and bravery." 

Tony studied him affectionately for a moment, loving the sleek perfectly groomed contours of him, but — "Loosen your hair, sweetling." 

Jarvis obeyed at once, allowing a wave of white gold to fall across his forehead and his left cheekbone before turning his attention back to Tony's foot. He'd grown out his hair at his Lord's request: in the seven years Tony had known the Fae-born previously it had always been cropped short, and now it flowed down almost to the point where his shoulders angled up to meet his slender neck. His hands were currently ungloved and his white linen shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, but his collar was still primly fastened and covered his throat to the jawline. There where times when Tony found the way he normally kept as much of himself buttoned up as possible insanely sexy: this was definitely one of them.  

The inches of the Lord of Newarl's body that had stirred under his body servant's earlier attentions now surged to full hardness. "And what about you, my Beauty?" he inquired warmly. "Did you enjoy your day on the town?"  

"Indeed." A tiny quirk of his full lips and a slight tilt of his head communicated profound satisfaction. "I found some fabric at the Free Market which will make a most fetching summer tunic for you — red brocade on black silk, a perfect match for your Erokian shirt collection — as well as a first edition signed copy of _Songs of the Melancholy Moon_ by Neosla." 

"I didn't know you liked his poetry." 

"Of course I do, Sir." 

"It wasn't on your Midwinter list." 

The smile widened fractionally, although his eyes remained focussed on his task. "It's in my best interest to maintain a little mystery, is it not?" 

This time Tony's laugh was low and throaty. "Yes… I suppose it is, at that." 

"And, I attended a performance of the Golden Tarneks at Ethany Hall. Splendid music — I never cease to marvel at the sheer raw exuberance of certain forms of human artistic expression. You'd never hear such savage beats and howling textures at a concert of the Twilight Lands." 

"But you liked it." 

"Very much. There's power in such things, even for those who lack the singing magics." 

He chuckled softly, letting his head fall back again, his eyes drifting closed. "Is this you, actually daring to admit that there are advantages to the human blood running through your veins?" 

"I've never denied that for a moment," Jarvis almost corrected. "And I fail to see how expressing enjoyment of an afternoon's diversion constitutes an endorsement of humanity over the Fae." 

Tony waved his right hand, dismissing the argument as a whole. "Well, anyway — you took time off. Good." He levelled a mock-stern look at his manservant without raising his head. "You don't have to work all the time, you know. I want you to enjoy yourself on occasion." 

"Is that an order, M'Lord?" The honorific was an endearment between them, the tone now definitely teasing. 

"That depends," he grinned in return. "Do you want it to be? And, do you need it to be before you'll unwind a little?" 

Jarvis considered that while continuing the foot massage. "Yes, and yes." 

Tony laughed softly low in his throat, and waved a now imperious hand. "Very well, then: I command you to have fun when it doesn't interfere with your other duties. Make it so, loyal minion!"

 "And what makes you think that I don't have fun _while_ attending to my duties?" A glance of brilliantly blue eyes through lowered white-gold lashes and the thin edge of a suggestive smile. " _Sir._ " 

Gods, that gliding tone did such delicious carnal things to him! A handful of syllables, the promise of submission offered like a kiss, and suddenly the bath that had seemed like paradise mere seconds ago was utterly inadequate to satisfy his needs. "Is that a hint, Jarvis?" 

"Perhaps it is, Sir. Do _you_ want it to be?" 

Tony nodded decisively and pulled his foot back into the bath, gripping the edges of the tub to lever himself into a sitting position. "We're done here," he commanded, and Jarvis rose at once, moving to the towel rack while his master got himself fully vertical and stepped dripping out of the water. His demeanour while drying Tony off was cool, his touch efficient but reserved, a model of professionalism — but when he reached Tony's lower belly he suddenly found a calloused hand outstretched to run hard fingers through his unbound hair, stroking it back and curving around the nape of his neck through his collar, drawing him in and down a couple of inches for Lord Stark's upturned mouth to claim his in a hard, slow, savouring kiss... but his hands never stopped moving the while. 

"Good," Tony breathed, closing his eyes again as the towel, with those skillful hands beneath it, curved around his right buttock and closed around his outthrust erection, " _Good_ boy," although Jarvis was his elder by almost three quarters of a century. 

"I live to serve, Sir," Jarvis whispered in return, and this time he wasn't bothering to conceal the brilliance of his smile or the preternatural fire in his half-hooded sapphire eyes. 


	2. Chapter 2

A little over six years it had been, since the Spring Equinox night when Tony had cast a circle of high ceremonial magic on Wiona Peak and burned ten hard-won unicorn hearts beneath a full moon brimming with light like a cup full of silver wine — but the scent and taste of the creature he had invited to his side by both using and defying the Old Magics was still capable of sending a shock of sweet surprise through him, that soft musk of a healthy young human male subtly underlaid by honey infused with tincture of tea roses. Sometimes he liked to needle Jarvis by observing that this must be why the Fae-born had such a craving for sweet morsels: after all, didn't he need to replenish his deliciousness on a regular basis? _Nothing escapes Sir's notice, does it, Sir?_ Jarvis would often reply, and Tony would smile at the pleasing contrast such tartness imparted to the mix. 

Because oh, Jarvis had a tongue like a sword: Tony had observed it in action many times during that breathless week after seeing his unearthly beauty across a crowded room for the first time, when the mage's conference at Soirana Castle would often be abuzz with discussion of how the half-human had engaged this scholar or that in spirited debate and sliced their arguments to ribbons with brilliant and incisive commentary. Jarvis went to those battles of words like the noble scion he was, proud and erect and clad in the armour of over a century of study, and he took no prisoners whatsoever, even though he was technically a mere adjutant to a lesser mage in the service of the Duke of Soira. 

Watching those victories from afar, Tony had only become more enthralled with him and more desirous of his company. And when at last an introduction was arranged to the mage and his retinue according to proper protocols Tony had been treated to an even greater amazement: a smile of genuine pleasure on full pink lips, a welcoming gaze from eyes too full of light, and a neat bit of manoeuvring that led to a few precious minutes alone on a quiet balcony overlooking the glory of a mountain sunset, the magnificence of which paled utterly in comparison to the wonder that was Jarvis at close range. They hadn't touched, of course — Tony had been warned by his own adjutant, Pepper, that the Fae and the Fae-born raised among them only permitted direct physical contact as an act of the most intimate bonding — but the cut and thrust of words between them had contained such a promise of heat that Tony, who had never had any patience with the concept of extended courtships, had thrown himself whole-heartedly into five weeks of dedicated pursuit with no more reward than the occasional fleeting touch of a gloved hand and a steady diet of those narrow enigmatic smiles. 

The kiss at the very end of it, lingering and breathless and far too brief, had gone through him like a lightning strike because it had meant so much more than a caress from merely human lips: _I would be yours, Antony Stark,_ it had whispered, _if only Fate had cast a different rune._ And even more enflaming: _I surrender to you, My Lord._ Tony was a man who understood the game of dominance and submission far too well not to instantly recognize that kind of offering… but then Jarvis had been gone, departed to the Twilight Lands from which he could not return for another two years of their time, which might amount to fifty years in the mortal realms — leaving Tony with nothing more than a memory to hold, his mouth still burning with sweet unquenchable fire. 

His heart had broken, bleeding black despair and red fury in his breast — and even now, nearly seven years later, every kiss recalled the bittersweetness of that first contact, which had seemed destined to be their last. Every kiss was a pledge of devotion, so utterly different from the casual mouthings Tony spent on his many female conquests that there wasn't even a basis for comparison. Every kiss was an act of claiming and of surrender, with Tony usually on the ascendant — usually. 

Tonight? Definitely. He savoured Jarvis's lips again, then smiled up at him and tightened his grip on the nape of that slim neck to guide the Fae-born down onto his knees. "No tasting yet," he admonished gently, and Jarvis nodded and finished drying his master off from the waist down, leaving Tony's protruding erection and heavy balls untouched save for a quick rub with the towel to remove most of the moisture clinging to them. The throb of Tony's desire only increased at the sight of the high-born son of Satvis Blood-Hand kneeling at his feet, but he restrained himself to running the fingers of his right hand through that silky blond hair and sending the glow of his own pleasure at such lovely obedience into their empathic link.  

A flow of cool amusement in return, underlaid with not-quite-human heat, and the impression of actual words: [[ _My Lord._ ]] Tony grimaced slightly at the pointed reminder that Jarvis would always be more accomplished at the art of the _ir'har'lal_ -touch than he. "Don't get cocky," he grumbled. 

Jarvis simply dried his master's feet, curving his lips in the faint smile that never failed to betray his essential pride. 

Back in the sitting room, Tony took a seat on the brocade couch with his thighs open and his feet braced twenty-two inches apart, cock prominently displayed, and gestured toward the main table. "Now," was all he had to say for Jarvis to fetch him a plate of food — cubes of meat and cheese, a small loaf of fresh white bread still warm from the oven, thin slices of fruit — and the glass of wine poured earlier, and return to kneel gracefully between his feet, gazing up at him with cool sapphire eyes in which boldness and submissiveness were almost equally balanced. Tony smiled as he took the plate and set it beside him on an end table, then the glass of wine, from which he drank a long sip — 1417 had been an excellent year for Chablin red — before leaning forward over his own erection and curving the fore- and middle fingers of his free hand under Jarvis's pointed chin, bracing it with his thumb while holding the glass to his full lips.  

"Drink," he murmured, both invitation and command — and so much more, for sharing from the same cup was an act of intimacy in Fae culture tantamount to engagement. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd essentially told Jarvis, _You are my betrothed_ , and in those widened eyes he saw the beginnings of transformation to pure and willing submission.  

Tony smiled anew, reflecting that all the songsmiths who waxed lyrical concerning the power of love had never written about anything quite like this: if they had, concerts would turn into orgies of wild rutting, because such ravenous heat was impossible to resist. Perhaps it was as well that they did not, then, quite aside from the fact that the gift of a Fae-born's servitude would never be granted to any human who was not Lord Antony Stark of Iosia. 

"Good boy," he whispered again. After two dainty swallows he removed the glass from the Fae-born's lips and passed it down to be held for him, leaning back and turning his attention to the plate. He ate without haste, enjoying the various combinations of flavours and the sight of Jarvis's slender form between his legs, those brilliant eyes now demurely downcast. When he came to a morsel that would appeal to the Fae-born palate — the fruit, mostly, although some of the cheeses were mild and sweet enough to qualify − he bit it in half and fed the rest to his servant, chasing each shared mouthful with another shared sip of wine. That too was an act of marriage, the warmth of it growing between them alongside the sexual burn, unspoken and perfectly understood. 

He gazed, and he was smitten all over again with each passing second. Even neatly composed and almost completely clothed, only his hands and his forearms bared, Jarvis on his knees was more alluring than any ten naked women wantonly displayed — and that included the legendary Whores of Ibin, whose delights Tony had sampled frequently enough to be an authority on the subject. The fall of his unbound hair was the only thing about him not perfectly restrained, and the sight of it kept Tony hard and aching even without a single touch being shared beyond the lightest brush of his fingertips against those full lips when Jarvis accepted a tidbit of food from his hand. _Parta's Blood!_ his heart sang within him, _this was worth ten years of my life-force and more, because what would my life have been if I'd been forced to endure the yearning for this rather than cherishing its reality?_ And deeper, a whisper of remembered dread: _But what if he hadn't come to my hand? What if I had called for him across the Veil, and he had chosen not to answer?_  

He knew the answer full well: he would have lain in the magic circle with ten years of his life drained away, bereft and desolate… but instead he'd felt hands on his face, a caress like silk, and felt a strong slender arm slid under his shoulders to raise him up, and heard that beautiful voice, low and desperate: _"Lord Stark, what have you done?"_  

He'd opened his eyes and gazed up at a face whose loveliness put the moonlight to shame, and he'd smiled, blinking to try to clear his faded sight. " _Jarvis…_ " he'd whispered, making no effort to hide the joy in every syllable: " _You heard me. You came to me._ " 

Jarvis had stroked his cheek, skin over skin in shameless intimacy, cradling Tony's head to his shoulder and gazing down at the shivering human with wide eyes shining and dark. " _Of course I did. How could I not? But — the Old Laws, the Price —_ " 

" _Already paid,_ " Tony had gasped, feeling the terrible void of time torn away from every fibre of his body. Ten years! He was not sorry — rather, he rejoiced in his victory. He wanted to raise his hands, to touch in return, but exhaustion weighed upon him like lead. He had to content himself with a radiant smile. " _You're no longer bound… to the Twilight Lands. You're at liberty to come and to go as you please. No one can hold you now, Beauty._ " He'd closed his eyes and let himself relax against the Fae-born's slim but strong body, managing a final whisper: " _You're free…_ " 

" _Of you?_ " The Fae and their half-human descendants did not weep, but he heard the ache of tears nonetheless. " _Never! I'm yours, Lord Stark. I've always been yours._ " And he'd bent his lips to Tony's forehead and breathed a tiny song, pure and exquisite and utterly priceless: " _J'har'vi'hessa…_ " 

His name. His _true_ name, the name that no Fae or Fae-born shared with any but their parents and their betrothed, for among that proud and ancient people such a pledge, once made, was never revoked. The name that gave the listener power over him, body and spirit, and Tony had trembled in the depths of his soul, stricken with wonder more profound than he'd ever hoped to experience in a lifetime of amazing achievements, and bottomless awe at the gift he'd just been given.  

In the days that followed, after Jarvis had carried him back to Newarl Tor and attended to him with every skill at his command, the shape of their alliance had become clear: for Jarvis, as intelligent and as strong-willed and as prideful as he was, a noble-born mage of the singing magics and a healer nonpareil, also desired nothing more than to serve the man he'd chosen as his master in every way possible — and thus he had come to stand at Tony's side as manservant and body servant, as physician and counsellor, as constant friend and lasting love… 

… and to kneel at his feet, taking food from his hand as token of both submission and devotion. When the last mouthful was gone Tony gave him a final sip of wine before polishing off the glass himself, then setting it aside on the end table beside the couch. He reached down, slipping his fingers under the fall of white-blond hair to lay his hand to that pale cheek, cooler than human skin and more flawless by far. 

"Still hungry, Jarvis?" he asked tenderly, caressing the Fae-born's sculpted cheekbone with the ball of his thumb. 

A flicker of an upward glance, mischievous, and a mildly wicked inflection: "For you, Sir? Always." 

It made Tony laugh softly with new delight. "Then come," he murmured, curving his work-roughened hand around the back of that long slim neck and gently drawing it forward, "and be satisfied." 

With a little musical sigh, Jarvis closed his shining eyes and parted his sweet lips, and obeyed. 


	3. Chapter 3

Tony had kissed, and been kissed by, so many women in his adult lifetime that he'd long since lost count — because in truth they were all inconsequential, an evening's joy in the chase and an hour of lusty amusement, and nothing more. He looked to their pleasure as well as to his own and the flesh-tempering magics he'd had performed upon himself when he'd entered manhood ensured that no pregnancies would ensue, so he was able to bed them and forget them with ease. Several had set their caps to ensnare the rakish Lord of Newarl in the web of marriage but had found him impossible to catch, because in truth he was resolutely, if cheerfully, unwilling to give his heart into anyone else's care. 

There was a time when he would have said _unable_ rather than _unwilling_ without a hint of regret or guilt. He made no bones about what he was and expected the world to accept him on those terms: his honesty was his honour in that respect. But then he'd strolled into the reception hall at Soirana Castle one late spring night on the prowl for a winsome girl or two to tumble, and his predatory eye had fallen upon something neither feminine nor soft — but so exquisite that he'd been unable to tear his gaze away, and his jealously guarded heart had been taken in one decisive stroke.  

It should have worried him, perhaps, that for Jarvis the walls which stood between Antony Stark and the rest of the world had never seemed to exist at all. But he couldn't recall feeling even a fraction of a second of fear, only desire that had made all of him — heart, body, mind and soul — sing like the strings of a viol resonating to a single note beneath a skillful bow.  

Like now, when that beauty submitted to the pressure of his hand and leaned in to breathe against his most secret skin, drawing a soft sharp inhalation of his freshly washed scent as if he exuded the world's finest perfume — no walls, no reservation, no hesitation whatsoever. He accepted the cool swelling wave of emotion from Jarvis that flowed into their _ir'har'lal_ bond, the link which had taken hold long ago, and more and more strongly with each increasingly accurate attempt he'd made to pronounce the Fae-born's true name (so patiently taught, each note and click consonant sung again and again until his human mouth learned their shapes and they were embedded in Tony's mind beyond the power of anything but an Oblivion bending to erase)… yet even when the bond had been new-made it had never disquieted him, accustomed though he was to walking life's paths alone.  

Now, in moments like these, it was only another layer of delight between them. He stroked his fingers back through hair like moonlit golden silk as that honeyed mouth kissed reverently up his length _[[adoration warm and bright as the lifeblood of rubies in the ir'har'lal]]_ , its upper lip firm and decisive, its lower lip rounded and plush, then caressed the burning tip of him with tiny kisses before parting to let him in, and _in_ , engulfing him in glorious wetness that made his eyes squeeze briefly closed in spite of his determination to watch every delicious moment of the performance — and this swelling in his own breast, could he deny that it was love answering love?  

Had he ever been able to deny it, hardened cynic though he prided himself on being? Not even on his best day, much less with the subject of his yearnings doing something which, in terms of Fae culture, was even dirtier than most humans conceived — tasting his master's prick, licking and sucking the hot raw flesh, and adoring every second of the shame no Fae-blooded male should have endured even under threat of death. 

"Yesss, _si'har'lin_ …!" The Fae'li endearment encompassed _bedmate_ and _shield brother_ and _beloved_ all in three syllables and two click consonants, and in spite of the waves of white liquid pleasure flowing into him from his cock as Jarvis swirled his clever tongue around the head and over the slit, Tony retained enough presence of mind to use the melodic intonation that signified the strongest possible emphasis of all three elements. His reward was a blissful little moan whose resonance only made him burn the hotter. He put both hands on Jarvis's sleek head, dug in his fingertips, braced his feet wider apart and began to rock his hips, slowly thrusting in and out of the tight depth of Jarvis's mouth: only an inch or so deeper, to the beginning of his throat, nowhere near as deep as he knew he was capable of penetrating. Another moan was his reward — Immortal Parta, nothing should sound that musical and that hungry at once! — and light hands came to rest on Tony's shins just above the ankles, barely brushing over the dark hairs that clustered there: not hesitant, but certainly requesting permission. 

Tony grinned wolfishly. On other nights he might be inclined to make Jarvis pay a forfeit for such presumption, perhaps with his own silk tie binding slender wrists behind his servant's back, but tonight — "Touch all you like," he growled, "and do _not_ hold back." 

Jarvis made another yearning noise around Tony's cock and pursued that directive: slowly, thoroughly stroking and rubbing him from ankles to calves to thighs, absorbing the texture of furred skin so much coarser than his own as if fondling the finest silk — and more than merely sighing and caressing, singing and manipulating Tony's etheric field in ways that sent tingles of pleasure racing up his spine, while continuing to lick and suck him with smooth avidity. There were, Tony reflected with a half-drunken grin as those skilled hands relentlessly inflamed him, conspicuous advantages to having a Fae-born healer-bard for one's lover — but he had no need of the singing magics to savour the pleasures of taking harder hold of Jarvis's head and pulling it down further, thrusting deeper, feeling his cock's head slide to the very back of that savouring mouth and a little beyond, tighter muscles clasping him…  

 _[[Rising heat, the first tiny clicks of inner unbinding, of self-control beginning to fray…]]_  

… and still Jarvis was humming sweet notes with a degree of physical control that never failed to impress Tony even at moments like this, when he had so much else to think about — hot, tight, wet, vibrating, clenching with a swallow, one faintly glowing hand cupping and lightly squeezing his testicles, and _sucking_ as if his balls held the Nectar of Life itself, and —  

"Stop!" he gasped, thighs quivering as a hot chill swept through his entire body. Jarvis hummed more urgently and tried to take him even deeper, forcing him to clasp the Fae-born's face in both hands and push him up and off forcefully, barely quickly enough to stave off the shattering flood of what had promised to be a spectacular orgasm. "Parta's Balls, Jarvis, what —!" 

The light in those desire-darkened eyes upturned to his stopped the curse in his throat — as did Jarvis's expression. His anger dissolved in the face of that heat _[[without and within]]_ : the dilated pupils, the flushed cheeks, the reddened lips parted and wet and swollen, open as if still ready for his prick, and especially that dishevelled hair spilling down to his oh-so-properly fastened collar — but enough of a resentful burn remained to roughen Tony's touch as he reached down and caught hold of Jarvis's thin silk tie with his right hand, pulling on it hard to drag his lover up off his heels, though he remained kneeling as Tony's mouth claimed his in a hard punishing kiss. Licking past those smooth pink lips, he could taste himself on Jarvis's tongue and the surge of combined irritation and fondness made his pulse throb even hotter in his cock, which was now being rubbed by the front of Jarvis's fine linen shirt. 

Speaking of rubbing… "Hands off," Tony rasped when their mouths finally parted. 

A shiver of a sigh, full of longing _[[restraint unbinding]]_ , as he continued to stroke Tony's inner thigh and to gently massage his still-tightening balls. At such close range the Fae-fire in his eyes shimmered, blue as copper-fuelled flame. "Sir, _please_ —" 

Tony gave the tie another tug, simultaneously twining his left hand into Jarvis's blond hair and gripping tight. _"Now_ ," he warned, "or there'll be nothing more for you this night." 

Jarvis didn't often resort to pouting, but when he did the results were devastating. Tony, however, did not relax his stern expression, and after a heartbeat the Fae-born complied, removing his hands from Tony's groin and placing them behind his back, wrists crossed. "You're no fun at all, _Sir_ ," he complained _[[such adoration of the mastery]]_ , which only made Tony smirk. 

" _Good_ boy." He maintained his admonishing grip on his servant's hair for a few seconds longer, making sure that Jarvis got the point, before releasing it to curve that hand around the finely sculpted line of his jaw, caressing it while his right hand kept the tie pulled taut and kept him upright on his knees. "Even when you're… overly enthusiastic." 

Jarvis gave him a look of reproof. "I am _never_ —" 

Another tug on the tie, harder this time, silenced him with a catch of _[[thrilled]]_ indrawn breath, although Tony's hand on his face was still gentle, and his smile was almost kind. Almost. "You love sucking my prick, don't you, my Beauty?" 

 _[[Shiver.]]_ "It is… rather addictive. Sir." 

Tony smiled more widely, leaning a little nearer. He could smell himself on Jarvis's slightly parted lips, and he traced the lower one with his thumb, feeling the _[[shiver!]]_ heat of each soft word between them as he gazed deep into those unblinking azure eyes. "And you want my seed all over your pretty face, don't you? Or on that clever little tongue, more likely?" 

He licked his lips, a darting flicker of said tongue that caught Tony's thumb as well. His voice was low, hot, the perfect distillation of desire and surrender: "Oh _yes_ , M'Lord." 

Tony permitted himself a moment to be amazed in: still fully clothed, his shirt not even loosened yet, and Jarvis was the most wanton thing he had ever seen. He gave the Fae-born's full lower lip another fond stroke before leaning forward to kiss it with tender lingering heat. "A pity, then, that I'll be spending it in your tight little ass instead. Come up here, and keep those hands out of play. After all," he teased with a twinkle in the _ir'har'lal_ and in his eyes, _"_ You've already proven, haven't you, that you can't be trusted to control yourself?" 

Judging by the incandescence suddenly rising between them, Jarvis was not at all disappointed with this turn of events — and in point of fact, had likely been manoeuvring toward it all along. It never paid to underestimate the subtlety of those with Fae blood flowing in their veins. 


	4. Chapter 4

Jarvis wasted no time in rising to his feet — a pure-blooded human with his hands behind his back would have been awkward about it at some point in the process, but Fae-born grace was more than equal to accomplishing the feat with perfect poise — and in bracing his right knee on the couch cushion beside Tony's left thigh, at which point Tony held up his right hand. "Ah! Stop right there." 

A raised white-blond eyebrow. "If I may be so bold — how, precisely, does Sir expect me to remove my clothing with both hands —?" 

"You let me worry about the details," Tony chided, his attention already focussed on what was now directly in front of him. "And what have we here, pray tell?" He started deftly opening his lover's neatly tailored black pants, still grinning.  

Even when indulging his submissive side, Jarvis could never resist a tart retort: "If Sir doesn't know by now —" 

"I wasn't talking to your mouth, my pert little minx — ah, here we are…" He folded aside the fabric, pulled down the underwear beneath, and drew the swollen flesh inside free to caress it with open admiration: slightly smaller than a human shaft and rising from skin as smooth as silk, but hard as horn and rosy as a fine summer dawn. "I know I compliment you on your beauty on a fairly regular basis, but have I mentioned lately that all of you is perfectly shaped? Even this: smooth and sleek and deucedly pretty." 

Jarvis managed to look aroused and pained at the same time.  "I don't believe any man likes to be told that his sexual organs are _pretty_ , My Lord." 

"Pretty," Tony insisted with a more wicked quirk of a smile and a more emphatic tug, making Jarvis catch his breath and tip his head back in a shimmer of pale gold.  

"If M'Lord insists…" he acquiesced, somewhat breathlessly. 

"I do." He rubbed it firmly with his right hand, stroking his thumb over the slick head to smear the drop of clear fluid welling from the slit while his left hand slipped inside the loosened pants to cup and squeeze the firm white buttocks. "And you should be glad enough that I find it so, when my admiration compels me to do this —" 

" _Sir!_ " It was a gasp as appalled as it was delighted, and Jarvis would have startled away like a deer if Tony hadn't had such commanding hold of him. "You — _ah…_ " 

He licked and sucked without haste, for it was delicious in truth: two slow bobs of his head before he drew back to smile tenderly upward. "When it comes to you, leman mine, I feel no shame in the act — only pleasure, if it pleases you. Now, shall I continue?" 

Jarvis quivered, the fine tremble of a wild animal beneath his master's hands. "If My Lord wills…" 

"He does. He most certainly does." He leaned forward and set to work in earnest, deliberately wet and loud and as filthy as he could make it, his own well-sucked prick subsiding a little in the room's cool air as he concentrated on giving as much pleasure as he'd received. Judging by the shivers and sighs that resulted he was succeeding admirably, and he loved every little tremor that passed through the fine-boned body poised above him, especially the way they began to run together beneath a series of low moans rising in both pitch and intensity. After nearly six years of playing this particular instrument he knew its tricks well, and when Jarvis began to pant he withdrew completely to draw out the delight with a teasing question: "Would you fill my mouth with your sweet seed, Beauty?" 

"Sir — I —" He was still trying to cling to a thin edge of self-control, at war within himself _[[forbidden, dirty, craved, wanting to surrender completely, too proud to yield so much, not yet]]_ , but when Tony ran firm fingertips into the crack between smooth buttocks to press and tickle his tightly clenched little hole he closed his eyes and gasped: "Yes, oh _yes —!_ " 

Tony smiled, and kissed, and licked with fresh avidity, and pulled him all the way in with the hand on his ass, fingertip hard almost to the point of penetration. That was all it took to provoke a final cry — "Lord Stark!" — barely loud enough to be heard in the next room over, but oh! such passion in every low syllable! and such luscious pulses on Tony's tongue, warm and thick and satisfying! He drank every drop, then ran his mouth slowly back over the softening erection until it came free with a tiny wet sound, before smiling impishly upward. Jarvis's head hung down, his shining eyes almost closed, his hair fallen across his face, and the flush on his cheeks was, to Tony's eyes, the sweetest sight imaginable. 

"That's a finer mouthful than any wine in the land," he purred, and slid both hands up under the Fae-born's untucked shirt to take hold of his narrow waist and pull. "Come down — yes, just like that." This time his coaxing met with no resistance; Jarvis settled heavily onto his lap, thighs open wide in a way that made Tony's cock stiffen with reflexive yearning, leaning in when Tony drew him nearer, so marvellously pliant and willing _[[warm, hazy, sweet glow of still-thrumming flesh]]_. Tony smiled more widely and curved his left arm around that slender back, cradling him close, caressing his face with his right hand and murmuring low: "So beautiful, every inch of you." 

Jarvis made a small sound, like the cooing of a dove, as he nuzzled even closer — then moaned again, softly, as Tony's left hand stroked down to the curve of his buttocks, lightly smacked the left one, then slid into the crack again to circle and tickle. More direct pressure made him tremble outright, his half-erect cock stirring and lifting anew: say what you would about the Fae-born, they certainly couldn't be faulted when it came to endurance. "Please," he panted, "please… My Lord. _Please._ " 

"And every inch of you mine, isn't that right?" 

"Utterly yours…" No more than a whisper, _[[surrender shame pleasure]]_ , his eyes now fully closed. He made no protest when Tony began to loosen his tie one-handed, keeping his own wrists crossed at the small of his back as ordered. 

"And everybody knows it," Tony grinned. "A proud Fae-born wearing the livery of a human Lord — there's a sight without equal in all the Kingdoms." He pulled the tie free from under Jarvis's collar and let it fall to the floor, starting on the collar itself while continuing to finger him shamelessly. "But I doubt even the boldest of them dares imagine that I would employ you like this." He pushed more forcefully, and Jarvis groaned as he penetrated to the first knuckle: _[[dark burning filthy oh Geist yes!]]_ , with just the edge of gritty near-pain he liked after his first climax. Parta's Balls, Tony could _feel_ the burn flowing between his violated asshole and the tip of his pretty cock, lighting up everything in between. He began to work the fingertip in and out, relishing the way the ring of muscle clenched around the drag and smoulder of it. "Yes," he crooned soothingly, tugging the collar open at last to kiss and lick inside, to murmur against that slim throat as he dealt with the rest of the shirt's buttons: "There's my winsome little slut…" 

Another groan, and Jarvis's hips pushed forward, nudging the tip of his prick against Tony's own rod, which was now fully erect again. _[[Shame glorious intolerable exquisite dishonour love yes yes_ ** _yes_** _—]]_  

He all but ripped open the final button, and now he was free to run his hand all over that silky-smooth torso, biting at the throat so willingly exposed to his teeth, imprinting red marks onto the delicate skin with teeth and fingernails. He could have been much rougher — Jarvis was far hardier than he looked — but it had never been in his nature to cause true suffering in the service of Eros, nor would Jarvis have appreciated such treatment: a touch of burn, a hint of ache that was all he desired, the slightest reminder that he was subject to Tony's pleasure and submissive to Tony's will. It was a delicate operation of alchemy, the transmutation of pain into pleasure, but Tony had been a diligent student and could now recite the requisite elements with both eyes closed. 

First, the sensitizing of the ass for fucking: a dry fingertip, introduced and employed with tender mercilessness. Second, the administering of bites, a marking that in Fae culture was both ruthlessly domineering and, to those so inclined, madly erotic. Third, the fisting of the prey's prick, each hard pull drawing another throaty cry from yearning lips. Fourth, the claiming of said lips with a stoking tongue and more bites, these ones considerably less sharp but no less inflaming. And fifth, perhaps the most important ingredient of all: the emotional embrace of the _ir'har'lal_ bond, which lent weight and context to everything else. Tony wasn't alone inside his own skin: he could hear Jarvis, he could _feel_ Jarvis, seeking his heart and finding it and seizing it like a hawk, _[[yes mine his yes magnificent more_ ** _yes yes yes_** _]]_  

On Tony's thirteenth birthday his father, a cruel and capricious man, had satisfied custom by taking his son to the Plains of Deathless Fire for the celebration of his coming of age. Tony would never forget what a travesty the rites had been, as his manifestly uncaring father mouthed the time-worn platitudes of familial devotion without meaning a single syllable, but even more enduring was the memory of the Plains themselves: an expanse of purest ebony riven with fissures of all the colours of flame, throwing up clouds of brief sparks to meet the stars of the eternal sky above. He had stood on the cliff overlooking them for hours, unable to tear his gaze away from their beauty, their majesty, and their terror — they were the most utterly inhuman landscape he'd ever seen, and part of him wanted to throw himself down the mountainside and into their lethal reaches, to be part of that terrible glory forever though its fires consumed him utterly. 

There were moments when he felt the same way while gazing into Jarvis: the Fae were, after all, just as alien and just as deadly, and just as seductive. He knew that Jarvis could, if he wished, destroy him with a few perfectly sung notes and the touch of one elegant hand, or that he could enthral him even more easily, stealing his will and his power as insidiously as a hairline crack leeching water from a jar, or as suddenly and catastrophically as a lightning bolt from the clear blue sky. He never forgot that in letting Jarvis get this close he had taken a venomous creature to his bosom — or at least, a being with the potential to prove fatal to him and all he held dear. 

No, he never forgot. Only a fool would forget something so vital.  

He wrapped his right hand around the nape of Jarvis's neck and pressed a final gliding kiss to that sweet panting mouth. "Look at me," he whispered, and when those sapphire eyes opened, full of Fae light, he smiled into them as tenderly as a wolf. 

"So eager." He couldn't resist taking another kiss, like tasting honeyed roses. "So _perfect_. Shall I fuck you now, _si'har'lin_?" 

These embers were blue, but that didn't make them any less vivid. "Yes, Antony… please…" 

Even without the _ir'har'lal_ in place Tony would have known that Jarvis was fully opened and ready to receive him: that name, which Jarvis treated as Tony's true name, was never used except in moments of absolute sexual surrender — and that was a triumph greater than anything he'd achieved as Lord Antony Stark, or any glory he would win as Iron Man, Protector of Iosia. He barely contained a shiver of pure red-blooded male delight, knowing that to Jarvis the surge of etheric energy was as clear to be seen as a flush on his cheeks. 

"Lie back, then," he said softly, "and let's get that shirt under you — after all, linen is far cheaper than a brocade when it comes to the stains of oil and seed, and while I'm more than willing to top you on this couch I'm certainly not inclined to buy it outright!" 

"And here I thought M'Lord was a romantic?" Jarvis murmured — but he was already moving to fulfill his master's command. 


	5. Chapter 5

Tony laughed aloud as they changed position together with the ease of years of practice: it wasn't the first time they'd played this particular game, after all, and in a trice he had Jarvis flat on his back, the linen shirt stripped down to physically entangle his crossed wrists while also roughly folded between his ass and the surface of the couch he lay upon.  It was a moment's work to slip off the manservant's shoes and socks and cast them carelessly aside; three much rougher tugs took care of the pants and underwear, and finally, _finally_ he was naked, thighs widely parted, stiff prick rosy and half-hooded eyes darkened with desire — and Tony joyously surrendered to the temptation to pounce on him, covering him with his own coarser form and pressing him hard into the cushions, rubbing and licking and tenderly biting.  

"Romantic?" Tony growled against that finely carved jawline, grinding his hips down, keenly aware of the pool of secret heat yearning for him just below the joined burn of their cocks: "Now who's misapprehending whom, Beauty? And where'd you put the oil flask? The bedroom?" 

His lovely voice was breathless: "The supper table, actually…" 

"Even closer to hand! You think of everything," Tony chuckled with undisguised admiration.  

"Even though the bed _would_ be more conventional…" Jarvis not-quite-complained. 

"And boring," Tony grimaced. "You know how I thrill to the strange and the illicit — and to the thought that some of the most dignified asses in Iosia will be sitting on this couch in months to come, the same couch where I ploughed my pretty manservant until he wailed for mercy." 

A rare shiver of laughter as he turned his head to his right, granting Tony easier access: "I haven't… wailed yet…" 

"Not tonight, perhaps." He grinned again, recognizing the game, and bit down on the pale throat hard enough to make the Fae-born flinch deliciously. "You just can't resist giving me back-talk, can you? Even like this. Even when you know it'll only make me pound your tight little hole that much harder." 

Jarvis's hips rocked beneath him, once, twice, a slow sinuous glide — and a loss of control doubly shameful to one of his race and rank. "Think —" He shuddered when Tony bit down harder, then dragged his tongue over the sore place. "Think of it as — a challenge —" 

"Gladly accepted." He caught Jarvis's chin with his left hand and turned the blond head to face him, to deliver a slow bruising kiss that left his lover breathless all over again when he let go and levered himself to his feet, heading for the table to retrieve the small blueglass flask of precious _isora_ -wood oil — only the best for his Beauty, when all was said and done. He took his time sauntering back, savouring the display of so much flawless flesh wantonly exposed and the disarray of silky hair, all white and pink and blond-gold… the submissive-bold gaze locked with his own…. and one pool of shadows in particular, the sculpted hollow below those small tight balls. "Geist take us all," he swore, uncapping the bottle as he drew nearer and taking his cock in his free hand to dribble cool slickness up its length, "you'd tempt a whole monastery of Cybelline monks to sin — one look at you and all their cocks would spontaneously regrow, just for the chance to fuck you." 

Jarvis simply watched him advance, his eyes full of light, his emotions marking a lust-driven beat: _[[and I'd sing them all into the ground, there's only one allowed to approach me, to touch to bind to take to conquer —]]_  

"Yes…" Tony crooned in harmony, settling his right knee on the couch, reaching behind it to set aside the flask on the windowsill as he stroked the faintly floral oil thoroughly up and down his throbbing length, coating himself liberally: he wanted this to burn, not to tear. "You're mine, love — no one else's, and mine's the only hand fit to render sacrifice at this altar." Leaning forward and bracing himself above the slender body that had permitted him to uncover its mysteries, he ran his oil-slick hand carefully over the elegant straining prick, down the firm balls, to stroke his index finger briefly into the hidden crack he was about to penetrate, making Jarvis arch and quiver with gazes still locked. This was the moment of greatest danger, _[[fire! resistance! defence! no! love, obedience, surrender!]]_ — and of greatest reward, if he could only charm the Fae-blood serpent that Jarvis's conscious decision to submit had awakened behind that brilliant gaze.  

If he couldn't, he'd end up writhing on the floor in agony — or worse. The human in his lover recognized him as Lord and Master, but the inhuman was another story entirely; or rather, it would only yield to its own craving for submission if Tony proved himself an adamant commander worthy of a Fae's acquiescence. Therefore he did not suffer his gaze to waver, and he gripped the base of his own glistening cock as if presenting the blade of a sword in battle. 

He saw — he felt — Jarvis recognize the familiar signal. And he saw the last line of resistance break between one hiss of breath and the next, as it had broken every other time he'd claimed the right of conquest over this proud tower since that night, almost six years ago, when Jarvis had first laid open his cladding to grant Tony access to the secrets that lay within. His triumph resonated in the hot interval of space that separated their bodies, provoking a shiver of fierce obeisance from his mate: _[[Yes, yours — always, forever, alone —]]_  

" _Let me in,_ " Tony sang in Fae'li, a melody as tender and as fierce as his love, " _let me in, Silver Mist Of The Rising Moon Reflected In The Winter Sea,_ " and when he parted those taut thighs a little more and closed the final inches between them his lover rose beneath him like a wave, closing his fiery eyes while crying out in a way that made every crystal in the room sing a tiny answering note of pure delight — and oh Parta, it was like sheathing himself in scarlet velvet, the oil just lubrication enough to facilitate the joining without easing the dark tight friction they both relished. He locked both his hands around the slim shoulders beneath him, sinking slowly half-way in with throaty groan, pulling out sharply with a grunt, and their shared pleasure slammed through the _ir'har'lal_ -link with an amplification fit to obliterate rational thought itself.  

" _[[Antony,]]_ " Jarvis moaned with his lips and with his mind, opening more with every hard thrust: " _[[Antony,_ ** _yes_** _, please, deeper —!]]_ " 

" _J'har'vi'hessa…_ " So seldom was he permitting to speak that name, much less repeat it, that he savoured its sweetness on his tongue almost as deeply as the glorious heat clasping his prick, and no less than the willing obedience that now enclosed him in an embrace far deeper than that of flesh and blood. He closed his eyes and concentrated on snapping forceful thrusts home, riding the slender body beneath him as roughly as he'd promised, and when the bound Fae-born began to writhe and whimper beneath him he only pounded the harder, gritting his teeth against the glorious near-painful drag of skin in flesh, wondering distantly if this was the time the esoric engine that sustained his heart would finally fail from the savage rise of white-hot electric bliss. 

He whispered the precious name again and again between kisses, and in the end Jarvis wailed, oh, he wailed as if those amorous stabs went straight to his heart, filling the spring night with his cries and the narrow gap between their slapping bellies with a few more scanty pulses of white seed. The shudder and clench of his inner muscles was all the permission Tony needed to bury his face in that slender neck and let himself go, and when orgasm claimed him a few thrusts later it overwhelmed him with wordless acknowledgement of the truth: that he might be the master in this relationship by every standard the outside world held dear, but that in the end it was he who stood before a throne of silver and gold to lay his heart at the feet of one both ancient and adored, the sun that illuminated his world, the moon that bestowed peace and beauty upon all within the compass of its serene gaze. 

************************************** 

It was Jarvis, of course, who got them both cleaned up and safely to bed, tucking his Lord in well before letting Tony pull him under the covers with a sly smirk and final fond grope. The weight of him was cool and familiar in Tony's arms, and when Tony nuzzled against his hair (once again neatly tied back) the scent he inhaled was redolent of love, and of sex — and of home, no matter how far he might be from the comforts of his own Tor. 

He slept the heavy contented sleep of one well and truly sated by two toppings in a single day — but when he awoke suddenly in the narrow slice of blackness between moonset and dawn in a cold sickly sweat, with a nightmare of his imprisonment in Aragha clawing at his vitals, Jarvis arose without a word to fetch his lyre and sit down with his back to the headboard, dimly glowing like white marble in the shadows with his eyes full of blue embers, softly playing and singing low with the soothing resonance of ancient magics: 

_O Mistress Mine, where are you roaming?_  
 _O, stay and hear! Your true love's coming,_  
 _That can sing both high and low;_  
 _Trip no further, pretty sweeting;_  
 _Journeys end in lovers meeting,_  
 _Every wise man's son doth know._

_What is love? 'tis not hereafter;_  
 _Present mirth hath present laughter;_  
 _What's to come is still unsure._  
 _In delay there lies no plenty,_  
 _Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty —_  
 _Youth's a stuff will not endure,_  
 _Youth's a stuff will not endure…_

Tony cuddled close and rested his cheek on the pillow of that slim hip, clutching the blankets around him while willing his chilling shudders to subside. The memories of drowning again and again were not so strong as Jarvis's living presence, and between the perfume of Fae-born skin and each note dropped like a pearl into the ebony bosom of the night Tony was asleep again before the last phrase faded sweetly away — leaving only a smile as thinly bright as the waxing moon above and narrow fingers to brush the tangled hair back from his brow, and tireless nigh-immortal vigilance to guard and guide him through the darkest hours of the night. 

THE END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from "Twelfth Night" by William Shakespeare.


End file.
